


That Kind of Girl

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossdressing, mild bigotry and homophobia, Adam angsting and Kris being generally awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Kind of Girl

Kris is closing up shop, about to flip the “open” sign to the “closed” side, when he sees it. Or rather, sees her. She's walking quickly, trying to get away from what is either one half of a “Jay and Silent Bob” impersonation show, or a wanna-be tough who's just tough enough to cause trouble. The skinny, greasy-haired blonde man yanks at whatever pieces of the woman he can reach, her elbow, her hair, her skirt. She's almost taller than he is in her heels, which means both of them tower over Kris, but despite her height, she's still having trouble keeping him away. When he gives a particularly vicious yank on her hair, she turns and slaps him. He grabs her wrist and manages to pull her off balance.

 

For a second, Kris thinks she's going to fall, but she catches herself. Kris hesitates, unsure whether to interrupt or not, but in that moment, skinny and greasy shoves her against the building behind them and crowds up against her, keeping one wrist over her head and useless while he pulls her skirt up and away from her body. She's hissing something at her attacker while she tries to pull her skirt down, but it isn't having any effect. Kris stops hesitating and throws open the door.

 

“Get away from her!” Kris shouts, running across the street. They both jerk in suprise, but the attacker jerks more, shouting something incomprehensible about “the lying bitch” while he turns and runs. The woman, on the other hand, looks over at him with hope in her eyes, and falls off the curb, losing her balance when the attacker jerks away from her before letting her go, one hand still trying to straighten her skirt. She sprawls on the asphalt, and Kris can tell already there's going to be bruising, and probably scrapes all along her right side. Her chin hits the ground pretty hard, too, and Kris winces.

 

He holds out a hand and she takes it carefully, lets him help her to her feet. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice low and a little deeper than Kris expected.

 

He shrugs. “You're welcome. Here, let me look at that,” he raises up on his tiptoes to look at the scrape on her chin. “That looks nasty. Come on, I'll patch you up. I've got a first aid kit in the store.” He nods toward the music shop he owns and starts leading her across the street.

 

“Oh, no, you don't have to do that,” she protests. “I don't—I mean, you didn't even have to--”

 

“Don't be silly. It's no trouble,” Kris smiles, looking behind him at the woman. “I'm Kris,” he offers. She looks startled at the offer of his name.

 

“Oh,” she flutters a little, her hands shaky. “I—um.”

 

He turns, stopping just outside the door. “You don't have to tell me your name,” he assures her. “It's okay.” She looks amazing, obviously fresh from clubbing. Her dress is covered in some weird rhinestone-sequin pattern, there's glitter everywhere, and she's wearing spike heels in a shade of pink so bright it practically glows in the dark. Her make-up is hitting drag-queen levels of cakey, but it works on her, the dark liner, the bright red lips, the silver eyeshadow and glitter dusted across eye lids and cheeks. Her hair is in a high pony-tail, falling long and glossy-black down her back. She's really not Kris' type at all, but for some reason, Kris thinks she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

 

“Thank you, Kris,” she says finally, letting herself be led into the store.

 

The rows of display cases and racks of sheet music feel more like home to Kris than anything else, and he smiles fondly at the darkened store as he makes his way slowly toward the back room. “There's a first aid kit in the break room,” he explains, leading her behind the counter. She's limping a little, favoring the scraped thigh. Kris wonders how hard she hit her hip when she went down, and if that's going to bruise too. Maybe he'll drive her home later, instead of letting her walk back. “Come on, you can sit on the couch and get those shoes off.”

 

He opens the break room door and lets the woman go in first. “Thank you,” she murmurs again. She heads right for the couch, which may be old and beaten up, but is still ridiculously comfortable and nicely worn-in. Once she's settled, she bends over and starts unbuckling the complicated closure on her high heels. Kris turns and gets the first aid kit from the cupboards over the sink and microwave. When he turns back around, she's peeling the shredded remains of a nylon stocking from her thigh, wincing as she goes. The trailing end of a stay peeks out from beneath her skirt, and Kris blushes. She's wearing a garter belt under that sparkly, sequined concoction she calls a dress. It feels too intimate to know that. When Kris is silent for long enough, she looks up at him, a skittish, practically unreadable expression on her face. “I—I'm sorry.”

 

“Why? I shouldn't be staring,” Kris shakes his head and moves closer, kneeling in front of her. “Let me get the rest of that?” He nods at the ruined stocking. She bites her lip, and Kris takes that as approval when she doesn't say anything else. He carefully pulls the material away from her skin, and takes note of where she's bleeding and what just looks bruised. It takes him a few minutes, because he's trying to be careful and not hurt her anymore than she already has been, so he pauses whenever she gasps in a breath or makes a little noise. Finally he finishes, and sits back.

 

“You don't have to do this,” she says, echoing her words outside the shop.

 

“I know I don't _have_ to. I want to. Besides, I don't like it when people pick on someone who's different than they are just because they can get away with it,” Kris explains. It earns him a sharp look from the woman, who looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't know how. “Everyone's got something different about them,” he adds.

 

“You have no idea, do you?” she asks softly. “You don't know who I am. You don't even suspect—god. It just figures.”

 

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm not sure what you're talking about,” Kris admits.

 

She just groans and falls backward, letting him dab peroxide-drenched gauze up her leg. “I am so screwed.”

 

**

 

So, life is just not going Adam's way tonight. Nevermind tonight, try “this week” or possibly even “this year.” But since he doesn't really care to trace all the bad that's happened since the flubbed audition, and the horrific experience of breaking up with Brad, and the horror that comes with being gay and out on a soap opera set, and his inability to get a record deal, he's gonna choose to go with “tonight.”

 

First there was the mugger—who apparently also had designs on Adam's theoretical maidenhood, too, but who mostly just wanted to beat the crap out of him when he figured out that _dress_ did not equal _girl_. And then, as the cutest brunette Adam's seen in a while came dashing out of a shop across the street to fight off Adam's attacker, of course Adam had to fall on his face, and scrape most of the skin off his arm, and ruin his last pair of flesh-colored stockings, _and_ bash his chin into the asphalt. So, he's managed to make himself look like a klutzy, accident prone girl, who also manages to attract the absolute wrong kinds of attention when she goes out clubbing.

 

The worst part of all of this is that Kris—the cute, short, just-Adam's-type guy who rescued him—still hasn't managed to figure out that Adam is—well, Adam. And not Addy, or whatever you want to call his drag-persona. This despite the sequins, the garters—which Adam knows he was staring at, he totally caught that glance—and the ridiculous amounts of make up it takes to cover both the freckles and the possibility of five o'clock shadow. Adam sighs and rolls his head against the back of the couch he's sitting on, wondering what Kris' reaction is going to be when he figures it out.

 

He sucks in a breath when Kris swipes his gauze pad over one of the raw scrapes on his knee. Kris freezes for a second. “You okay?” he asks.

 

“Fine,” Adam sighs. “You're incredibly naïve, you know.”

 

“Hmm? Why?” Kris asks, obvioulsy distracted and concentrating more on Adam's leg.

 

“Because you're—you're so trusting,” Adam explains, suddenly unable to blurt out his secret. “You just invite me in here, no idea of who I am, and then you—you do all _this_ , and anyone else in your shoes--”

 

“Would have done exactly the same,” Kris finishes, cutting Adam off. “Look, ma'am, I don't know where you're from, but in Arkansas, we do things a little differently. No one would turn away a stranger in distress.” Kris frowns. “Okay, some people would, but not the people in Conway. So. There you go.”

 

Adam straightens up and stares down at Kris' head for a moment, not even fantasizing about other things Kris could be doing down on his knees for Adam like that. “You're in LA. No one does shit like this in LA,” Adam explains.

 

“Yeah? Well, I do.”

 

That seems to be the end of it. Adam's not up to fighting over someone taking care of him, he's really not. Especially not when the caretaker is cute and Southern and brought all his Arkansas values with him to the big city. Kris is unintentionally hitting pretty much every requirement Adam has for his significant other. It's just not fair. He hisses as Kris uses tweezers to pick at a piece of debris that's decided it likes Adam's thigh better than lying on the street. “You're straight, right?” Adam asks abruptly, trying to keep his mind off the niggling tweezers.

 

“Uh, yeah?”

 

“You don't sound sure,” Adam points out, then hitches into a little whine as whatever Kris has been digging at comes free. “That hurt.”

 

“I'm sure. Well. Sorta. I guess not. I was surer when I was dating Katy, but now . . .”

 

“Tell me,” Adam says, and when Kris blinks up at him owlishly, he explains, “I need something to keep my mind off . . . you. And those damn tweezers, and that stupid peroxide.”

 

“Oh,” Kris blinks again and nods. “Right. I'm actually gonna just slap a few bandaids on the worst of this and then move on. Looks like your elbow took the worst of it anyway.”

 

“That is not distracting. Distract,” Adam commands. He counts it a win when Kris laughs.

 

“Okay. You sure you wanna know about Katy?” He's peeling open one of the bandaids, and spreading some sort of antiseptic cream on it.

 

“Yes. Particularly if that is going to sting at all.”

 

Kris shrugs unapologetically. “Would you rather it scarred?”

 

Adam shivers. “No. No scars. But distraction. I will handle this much better if you tell me all about how Katy may have turned you gay.”

 

He laughs again, and Adam really tries not to feel like he's done something special. “Okay. Katy was my high school sweetheart. Don't say it, I know, okay? We were young, we thought we were in love, and after we graduated, I asked her to marry me.”

 

“This can't end well, can it?” Adam sighs. “Go on. I love a good tale of woe.”

 

“Not too woeful, actually,” Kris pauses long enough to put more of the nasty, stingy cream on a bandaid. “We blundered on, planning the wedding and generally being teenagers in love. And then she was going on about buying a house in Conway, and I told her I wanted to move to LA, that I was going to manage my Dad's chain of music stores while trying to build contacts in the business so I can cut a record, and she told me she wanted to stay home and have a family, at least at first, and it just sort of fell apart from there.”

 

“That is maybe the least woeful tale of woe I have ever heard. And I still don't understand how she turned you. There is nothing bad enough to make you turn in there,” Adam pouts. He's good at pouting. Also, Kris has those damn tweezers again and is picking at something that feels like it wants to make friends with his funnybone.

 

“Well, I didn't really get curious at all until I moved out here. And then one day, this couple came into the store. Some ridiculously tall guy and his boyfriend, and they were paging through the sheet music. And I don't know, all of a sudden I thought it might be nice to be taken care of, like they were doing for each other, you know? Hands on shoulders, picking out songs, teasing and laughing. They both just seemed so sure they loved each other. I figured, what does it matter who you're into, if you're that sure they love you?” Kris explains. “And I'll admit, I was totally jealous the whole time. I want that, you know?”

 

“That makes sense,” Adam says. “It goes both ways, doesn't it? Sometimes you're the one who supports, other times you need the supporting. Any good relationship has give and take.”

 

“You are much more sensible than my imaginary friend was when I told _him_ about this,” Kris says.

 

“Your imaginary friend?” Adam asks, eyebrow raised.

 

“Well, I figured since I was turning into the heroine of a romantic comedy, I needed to talk to either my sassy lesbian friend, or my sassy gay friend. Sassy friends are universally useless, because both incarnations just started comparing me to famous heroines. Like, 'Find your Heathcliff, find your Mr. Darcy, find your Westley.'” Kris shakes his head. “None of that was particularly useful. Especially since Westley was mostly dead for most of the exciting parts of that movie.”

 

“Your imaginary sassy friend told you to find your mostly-dead Man in Black? Who does your sassy friend think you are? Buttercup or Inigo?” Adam demands.

 

“I know, right? You think they'd at least offer something useful, like 'Avoid that weirdo Humperdink' or something,” Kris grins. “Although I do like the idea of flinging yourself down a hill after the man you love.”

 

“Honey, it's not that romantic, trust me. You just end up with a twisted ankle and a boy who's too short for you and has to help you hobble home.” Adam winces at the memory of trying to lean on Brad without putting too much of his weight on him. In the end, he'd sent Brad for crutches and waited out the meantime on an obliging park bench. “And your boy will probably laugh at you, too,” he adds, with a sudden thought for the way Brad had cackled.

 

“I'd rather be Inigo anyway,” Kris shrugs. “I may have spent a summer day or two when I was younger dashing around the back yard with a stick demanding people prepare to die.”

 

“Oh dear,” Adam says, smiling despite Kris having moved on to peroxide, “you know what I'm going to ask you next, don't you?”

 

“Huh?” Kris looks up, his wad of gauze hovering somewhere between wrist and elbow.

 

“Say it,” Adam prompts.

 

“Oh. That. No,” Kris shakes his head. “You'd be horrified by my Spanish accent. I've had grown Spanish teachers run from it.”

 

“Say it,” Adam pleads. “Just once. For me?”

 

Kris sighs, deep and long-suffering. “Fine. _'Allo. My name is Eeeeneeego Montoya. You keel my father. Prepare to die_ ,” Kris mimics, glaring up at Adam the whole time.

 

“Very cute,” Adam praises, before giggling uncontrollably. “I certainly hope your British accent is better than your Spanish one.”

 

“Not by much,” Kris admits.

 

Adam grins, trying for sly but probably just hitting goofy. “Say it,” he begs.

 

“What now?” Kris asks, pretending to be exasperated.

 

“Please? For me? Just once?” Adam asks. “Here, I'll even be Buttercup for you. _Farmboy, fetch me that pitcher?_ ”

 

Kris looks like he might spontaneously combust from blushing too much. Finally he manages, “As you wish.”

 

Adam grins again. Kris gives a particularly vindictive swipe of his gauze. “You're cute. I wish--” Adam stops himself. No use wishing for what can't be.

 

“What do you wish?” Kris asks. He's slapping that stupid, stingy cream onto a gauze pad now, and getting out the medical tape. “Hold your arm out, and keep still.”

 

“Nothing,” Adam sighs, obeying Kris' command. “Just. Well, what's the use of wishing for something that will never be?”

 

“I don't know,” Kris shrugs, pressing a strip of tape against the edge of the gauze. “But sometimes wishing out loud helps. Helps me anyway.”

 

“All right. Then I wish we'd met under different circumstances,” Adam admits. “Maybe then I'd have had a chance with you. As it is, though . . .”

 

“You have a chance with me,” Kris nudges Adam's arm and gets him to raise it up. Kris finishes taping the bandage on and lets him lower it. “There's always a chance.”

 

“I really don't,” Adam sighs. “I haven't even been completely honest with you about—about anything.”

 

“You don't really like _Princess Bride_?” Kris gasps.

 

“No, not that. About—about why that guy was attacking me.”

 

“I was assuming it's because he got mad when you hit on Silent Bob,” Kris mumbles, almost to himself. Adam blinks.

 

“Did you just compare my mugger to Jay, from Jay and Silent Bob?” he demands. “God, could you be anymore perfect?”

 

“Look, you barely know me. You can withhold information, I'm not gonna be mad about that. As long as you're not some sort of axe murderer or notorious mafia don, we're good,” Kris assures him.

 

Adam looks down at his get up and sighs. “Don't worry. The mafia kicked me out because I sparkle too much.”

 

“What a horrible thing to say! Obviously you sparkle just the right amount,” Kris teases.

 

“Hey, don't mock,” Adam pouts . “No one ever lets me just be myself anymore. Not even the mafia.” He thinks Kris is totally going to say something sweet about being able to be himself—herself?--around him, but instead he just holds up the dreaded peroxide.

 

“Okay, you need to stop talking now,” Kris warns. “I gotta get that scrape on your chin, and then we'll see about getting you home.”

 

Kris brushes the gauze over Adam's chin carefully, and Adam tries to keep his breathing even. He smells wonderful, some combination of apples and soap that's almost overwhelming but isn't. This close, he feels like he should maybe make some sort of joke about how he usually waits for the second date, but he can't bring himself to say anything through the weird pounding of his heart in his throat.

 

This scrape is minor, and once Kris has it clean, he carefully presses a bandaid over the length of it, then scootches back, giving them both some space.

 

“Okay, that's it,” Kris announces, rising and packing up the first aid kit. “Give me a minute and I'll walk you home.”

 

Adam puts his shoe back on and sighs. “You don't need to do that. I can make it on my own.”

 

“No offense, but I'd feel better if I came with you,” Kris admits. “You seem to have a knack for finding trouble, if tonight's anything to go by. And you're even less equipped to deal with a mugger now than you were before, seeing as now you're slightly handicapped. Let me come. I promise I'll leave as soon as I see you get safely inside.”

 

He stares at Kris for a moment, then nods. “Fine. Yes, great, let's go.”

 

“Don't sound so eager,” Kris mumbles.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, letting Kris decide if Adam heard him or is just contrite for snapping. “I just. I'm sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Kris nods. “Don't worry about it.”

 

Adam bites his tongue and follows Kris back out through the store. He waits patiently when he stops and resignedly takes off his shoes. “These were my last pair,” he says mournfully, stripping off the other stocking. Then he sighs and slings the heels over his shoulder by their straps. Once they get outside and Kris has locked up, Kris lets Adam lead.

 

The walk is silent, and Adam knows Kris feels like maybe he said something wrong, but he can't figure out how to fix it. Finally they stop outside a hotel. Kris frowns. “You live here?”

 

“Yeah,” Adam nods. “Fourth floor penthouse.”

 

“Huh,” Kris shrugs. “Okay. I guess this is it then.”

 

Adam doesn't want this to be “it.” He wants to take Kris upstairs and he wants to kiss him, and he wants a lot of other things, too. Kris squints at him and he rolls his eyes. “God. So clueless.”

 

“What?” Kris demands.

 

“Never mind. I'm gonna--” he motions with his head.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Kris agrees. Adam turns and starts walking inside, but stops when Kris calls out, “Wait!” He turns back around and raises an eyebrow. “Won't you tell me your name, at least?”

 

The noise he makes at that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You stupid, naïve boy, I just—I'm _Adam Lambert_.”

 

It takes a second for that to sink in. When it finally penetrates, Kris' mouth drops open. “My god,” he gasps. “ _You're_ Adam Lambert? I can't believe it, dude, I'm a huge fan! I mean, I don't normally like soap operas, but, you're really good.”

 

Adam gapes at him. “That's you're reaction to this? That I'm—that you're—dear God, are you really that clueless?”

 

“Adam, I'm not stupid. I get that you're a guy,” Kris says, slowly, like Adam is totally the idiot in this scenario. “I just . . . I don't know, dude, it's not like it's that big a deal, right? You're not hurting anyone.”

 

“That's not what some people think,” Adam mumbles.

 

**

 

“Oh,” Kris breathes, realization hitting him at Adam's defensive posture. “That's what the attack was about. He found out you were a guy?”

 

“I didn't even think I was doing that great a job at passing,” Adam mutters, shoulders hunched. “And it's not like that club was super-straight or anything. I thought—I don't know what I thought. That it wouldn't be a big deal, I guess.”

 

“It's not a big deal,” Kris protests. “Or, it shouldn't be.”

 

Adam stares at him, and Kris wonders if he's sizing him up, or imagining him naked. The moment breaks when Adam steps forward and kisses Kris. Which is pretty amazing. Kris is totally grinning through it, throwing his arms up around Adam's neck and hanging on while Adam kisses him.

 

“Wow,” Kris says when Adam finally lets him breathe again. “You're really good at that.”

 

Adam laughs. “I didn't think you'd let me.”

 

“I really don't mind,” Kris shrugs, not letting go of Adam, even though he looks uncomfortable and keeps trying to put a little distance between them. “You know. At all.”

 

“This is okay?” Adam wonders, looking more vulnerable than Kris has ever seen him.

 

“Really, really okay,” Kris nods.

 

“Okay,” Adam breathes out, harsh and a little disbelieving. “Um. Can I come by the store tomorrow?”

 

“If you don't I'm coming to hunt you down,” Kris warns. “Seriously. I know where you live.”

 

Adam laughs at that, and Kris blushes, and tries to explain about how he's not a stalker, really, but Adam just waves him off. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe we can have our first date?”

 

“I'd like that.”

 

Adam almost makes it all the way inside the building when Kris calls out, “Hey, Adam?” When he turns, Kris smiles. “You're very pretty as a girl, but I like you best when you're being yourself.”

 

Kris swears he can see Adam blush.


End file.
